Experiences as a Freshman Drummer
by DRUMLINEpaco
Summary: Everyone's freshman year is a shock...a short read you can relate to


Experiences as a Freshman Drummer  
written by drumlinepaco  
  
  
April thru June 2001 - 8th Grade - BCJH  
  
The first time I started realizing what "marching band" truly meant, I was in the eighth grade at a brand new, but already pathetic junior high school entitled Branch Crossing. The high school I was to march for next year began drumline camp in May. Or was it early April? Either way, band became an entirely different concept than the year-round concert season that I was accustomed to. Thirty or so drummers, ages 14 to 17, all in an enormous horseshoe taking up the entire band hall with nothing but practice pads and two snare drum sticks will change one's views about band. The exercises? Quarter notes for the first week or so. Then some doubles exercises...some accent exercises...add some triplets...Triplet Accent, Triplet Diddle...Lego My Eggo?  
  
Before I knew what was happening, we were trying out for next year's line. For the past two years, the only "marching" experience I had was a single show referred to as 'Super Halftime', at which there was no football game, but Junior High and High School bands from the area played a selection of songs, with a couple of marching bands, but mostly...a LOT of annoying junior high bands standing on the field in a block with two or three songs to play. How exciting. The point...for the past two years, I played snare drum as first chair percussionist at Super Halftime, and snare on almost anything in concert season. Snare was my passion. Anyone wanna guess what I tried out for? Snare. No shit! However...never until now had I ever heard of this new horror called TRADITIONAL GRIP. To hold the stick this way meant nothing but suffering and pain to me. The left hand, my gimp hand anyway...ring and pinky finger tucked underneath the stick, while ya hold onto the stick for dear life with your pointer and middle finger. And your thumb? Always touching the top joint on your pointer.  
  
What the hell.  
  
That's all that was running through my mind when this was demonstrated to me by one of last year's seniors, visiting the drumline camp to help clueless fish like myself not be an embarassment to the drumline. People were cut from the snare line every day, and each day I was more and more nervous. Finally it was down to 8 people...only two fish, only two girls. I represented both of these categories. My traditional grip was still such a mess it was worth crying over, however, and I was finally cut from the snare line, only a week after I started. This caused me to spend several nights crying myself to sleep. Todd, one of the percussion directors, approahced me immediately after being cut, with nothing but "Why don't we send you to the bass line for a while, and see what happens?"  
  
What was I supposed to say?  
A whispered "okay" was all I could get out. So I joined the lineup of about eight people that were trying out for the bass drum line. In the end, only six would remain. It didn't matter to me. I could play triangle in the pit for all I cared. My love for band had been shattered. As far as I was concerned back then, the only positive thing about bass line is that I met a junior who, shockingly, was even shorter than my 5'0" self. I would later know Julia much better than as a random acquaintance, and her fianceé, Nathan, would eventually become one of my best friends.  
  
As the tryouts for bass line drew near, I somehow grew attached to the idea of playing bass drum. I practiced the bass etude constantly, and even fund myself tapping it out in English, Science, and Geography and fixing any mistakes I found. Compared to what had been required for snare, this wasn't as painfully difficult. After everyone had tried out, Amelia and I were asked to play the etude again. After much debate between Mr. Salmon (the other percussion director) and Todd, the bass line consisted of English, Vanessa, Cara, Sean, Blake...and me. I made drumline. I threw myself a ramen party that night.  
  
July 2001 - Summer  
  
Most of band camp went by in a blur. Not necessairly a quick blur may I add. An endless, hot, redundant blur. At first, marching seemed impossible. Even without the drums on. As I've stated before, I am a bit vertically challenged, no thanks to my father. Marching a full 5 yardlines in five steps seemed physically impossible. Todd just kept telling me, 'If English can do it, you can do it too.' Have I mentioned that English is just as short as me, and a senior? It seems like the day after that, Todd was writing our parts for the marching opener. New Century Dawn. After that...where did it go? How did it happen so quickly, and where did the hours on top of hours on top of hours go? It took me until the end of June to figure out who this 'Louis' was, who was mentioned just about every day. He was the snare captian. Duh, Paco. I also confused Charlotte, our pit captain, with another pit member named Lauren, who I confused with the other Lauren, the last girl on the snare line. I got confused between Lauren and auren, Louis and Louis, Sean and Sean, Casey and Kasi, Cara, Cara, and Cara...let's just say it was not an easy trip for me.  
  
The first time I heard the snare line count off with duts...I all but laughed out loud. What the heck are they doing?! Dut Dut Dut Dut? Whatever happened to the good ol' accent tap approach? I got over it after about a week, when we informed that it wasn't just the snare line that had to do this...but the entire marching drumline (snares, basses, and tenors). Dut Dut Dut Dut Dut Dut Dut Dut. This seemed ridiculous to me, until much later in marching season, when our asses were saved by 'dutting' during rests and silences during the marching show. Whenever we're not playing, we dut. End of story, no arguing, or you get yelled at. The number one rule on the drumline, however, placed even above 'Don't suck' and 'Don't piss off seniors', was, and I quote--"If you're early, you're on time. If you're on time, you're late. If you're late, you're screwed." I personally had to run a lap around the school for this one.  
  
Football games were always a party, competitions were times of bonding, and all throughout marching season, Louis Esposito scared the living crap out of me. Sophomore birthday parties where Spin-the-Bottle-in-the-Hottub is played, and one ends up kissing their feared drum captain is something that one will end up getting nightmares about. Louis isn't that bad at all, in fact, I've noticed that I look up to him. Him and English and half the seniors, but there's just something about Louis that kept me alert during marching season, and feeling like part of the section in concert season. Except for maybe when I was askin' Louis something and it had just rained and I stepped in ankle-deep mud, almost falling over with my bass drum on. Louis thought it was funny. Yeah well...yeah. Uh...yes, anyway...  
  
It kills me to see our seniors graduating next year. Louis, Louis, English, Cara, Chris, Lauren, Kathy...next year won't be the same without them. I know that I've change in the course on one year, and my life would never have been the same without band. I love the first few moments before marching the show, when all the anxiety in the world is swimming around inside of you, and with the first step it all vanishes...  
  
The Woodlands High School Marching Band... 


End file.
